


This Too

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clint Barton headspace, Established Relationship, M/M, Modern Bucky Barnes, Soft D/s Dynamics, Which is an asteroid field, canon adjacent, ish, ranger panties, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:41:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27492856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: Standing by the row of sinks set against one wall of the locker room, Bucky Barnes was glaring at himself in the mirror while he shaved.And then he was glaring at Clint’s reflection in the mirror.Which didn’t change the fact that Barnes was almost entirely naked except for his… boxers? Boxer-briefs?What even did you call tight little completely sheer as in completely clear and utterly see-through shorts?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 19
Kudos: 168





	This Too

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).



> As always, thanks to Ro for the beta reading!!!

It was late enough - or, shit,  _ early _ enough at two in the morning - that the SHIELD gym was entirely empty.

That meant Clint got in a solid hour of machine rotations and another hour of running around the indoor track until finally, finally, his exhaustion rivaled the voices in his head telling him all the new and old ways he was a fuck-up.

He took a long shower - even played the lobster boil hot and Siberian freezing lake temp switch for a while - and that meant it was finally creeping up on dawn when he walked back into the locker room.

He hadn’t bothered to wrap anything around his waist - he was alone, and anyway, screw everyone who wasn’t polite enough to look away from the scars on his hips and thighs and back.

But he did use a towel on his hair, vigorously, maybe even viciously, rubbing at his scalp.

Until he caught a glimpse of tanned thighs.

Thick thighs.

Thighs with sparse, soft dark hair and-

Clint dropped the towel.

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

The question was out of his mouth almost before the towel hit the floor.

Standing by the row of sinks set against one wall of the locker room, Bucky Barnes was glaring at himself in the mirror while he shaved.

And then he was glaring at Clint’s reflection in the mirror.

Which didn’t change the fact that Barnes was almost entirely naked except for his… boxers? Boxer-briefs? 

What even did you call tight little  _ completely sheer as in completely clear and utterly see-through _ shorts?

Sure, there was a band of white trim around them but, but no, they really were completely clear. As if someone woke up one day and said hey, I’m gonna make underwear out of a Ziplock bag, and someone else - some asshole named Bucky Barnes - said great, I’m gonna wear them because my perfect ass isn’t distracting enough in literally everything else.

And then, of course, Clint caught sight of the thin band of orange between the plump cheeks of Bucky’s ass. The triangle of fabric just above and-

A thong. Bucky was wearing an orange thong under his plastic wrap boxers.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Barnes growled.

Clint forced himself to look away from Bucky’s ass - and seriously, anyone in his entire life who had ever said he didn’t have self control, fuck them, because he  _ looked away _ from that ass - and met Bucky’s glare in the mirror.

“Fair enough,” Clint said.

Bucky’s glare softened - went from nuclear winter to Russian winter - and he held Clint’s gaze in the mirror long enough to make Clint squirm.

“You were on that op in Bulgaria, right?” Bucky asked.

Sort of asked. Sort of boldly stated classified information that he sure as shit didn’t have the clearance for.

Clint walked over to the sinks and leaned against the counter beside Bucky, faced him instead of his reflection.

Bucky went back to shaving after Clint gave him a tight nod.

“Two casualties instead of five hundred isn’t the worst outcome when you’ve got a suicide bomber to deal with.”

Clint locked his jaw, felt a muscle twitch and had to fight the urge to cross his arms over his chest.

“Still two people who didn’t need to die. Shouldn’t have died.”

“They were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Bucky said, practically drawled with that insufferable empty tone of his that infuriated everyone from interns to, hell, Fury himself.

And Bucky knew something about wrong place, wrong time - had been himself, six years ago when a space whale crashed into his sister’s Brooklyn apartment and Bucky, an Army Ranger on leave, had spent the day hauling survivors out of the rubble before he’d been trapped himself and lost his left arm. And then Stark, with a wallet deep enough to match his grief and self-loathing and insatiable desire to  _ fix,  _ had swooped in when the Army balked and engineered a metal fucking arm for Bucky that was a goddamn weapon all on its own. And then Fury and SHIELD and four years as one of the Agency’s most infamous wet work specialists.

And two years as Clint’s on-again, off-again, what the hell, on-again, fuck buddy.

Yeah. Bucky knew something about wrong place, wrong time.

Didn’t change the facts, though.

Bucky’s razor dragged over his throat, cut through creamy lather to reveal smooth skin and a hard jaw.

“Get your towel,” Bucky said, eyes still on Clint but razor moving flawlessly.

Clint didn’t even question it. 

The roar of  _ you fucked up, you’re a fuck-up, you fuck up everything _ had taken a backseat, had simmered down to a buzz in the implacable face of Bucky’s calm voice and deadly body.

He picked the towel up from the floor where he’d abandoned it.

“Fold it, put it here,” Bucky took a step away from the counter, indicated the scant space below it, between his legs.

Clint did pause now. Had to stare until Bucky looked him in the eyes again.

“You need something else instead?” Bucky asked, and this time the emptiness in his voice felt too much like comfort, like tenderness.

It almost made Clint say yeah, almost made him ask for a sparring match that his body was too drained to have any hope of even pretending at.

Clint was dumb, sure. But he wasn’t that dumb.

“No,” he croaked, had to clear his throat before speaking again. “No, I’m good. This- this is good.”

He folded the towel, put it on the floor in front of Bucky’s feet - the asshole was really wearing his combat boots. Had stripped down to whatever the fuck, shower liner shorts and that fucking orange thong but put on his fucking boots.

Almost like he’d wrapped himself up for Clint. Almost like he’d thought  _ oh, yeah, that time I made Clint get off by humping against my boot is still his go-to jerk-off material, _ and _ oh, yeah, Clint will never ever complain that I stole this orange thong from him, because sometimes, thinking about it on my perfect ass is what gets him through the day _ .

Clint drew in a shaky breath as he sank to his knees on the towel.

He was pretty fucking sure that’s exactly what Bucky had done.

Throw in the shaving? 

The inexplicable four in the morning appearance in the SHIELD locker room?

Yeah. Bucky had been reading mission reports again.

Clint reached for the waistband of the - he still couldn’t bring himself to call them underwear - sheer shorts that, holy shit.

Ranger panties.

But no. They weren’t, because Clint had spent a fair amount of time with his hands fisted into Bucky’s myriad collection of Ranger panties.

But these - holy shit.

They were.

They were sheer fucking Ranger panties.

Clint had done a lot of bad shit in his life. Had made a lot of mistakes. Had been weak and pathetic, and he’d let Loki turn him into a fucking hand puppet, and he’d paved the way for an alien invasion and the deaths of nearly ten thousand New Yorkers.

But somewhere, somehow, Clint had done something good. Had done something  _ right _ .

Had pleased the right god instead of pissed them off, because really, there was no other explanation for this.

For Bucky Barnes to be nodding down at him and letting Clint Barton peel down those scraps of thin fabric to reveal his perfect dick. No other explanation for Bucky letting Clint get that dick in his mouth.

“Make it last,” Bucky said, voice low and heavy, a soothing weight in Clint’s mind to match the warm weight of his dick on Clint’s tongue.

All Clint could do was hum in agreement.

And be grateful.

So very fucking grateful.

-o-

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> For CB, who deserves nice things.  
> And I'm still working on the other nice thing. The collaborative nice thing.


End file.
